


Nothing We Were Ever Trained For

by chagrintrovert



Category: Clintasha - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clintasha - Freeform, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-03-30 17:45:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3945868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chagrintrovert/pseuds/chagrintrovert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Natasha deals with the tragic aftermath of the battle in New York and finds hope in the last place she ever expected.</p><p> </p><p>**I claim no ownership over the characters depicted in this work**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

My name is Natasha. Natalie. Natalia. Something like that. To be perfectly honest, I don’t really know who I am anymore. I’ve been too many people. I’ve done a lot of bad things. I’ve got a lot of red in my ledger. I used to be a spy, an assassin, a secret agent, an Avenger. I used to be a friend, a partner, a lover. I used to have a reason to wake up in the morning. But that’s all changed now.

I’m thirty years old and I’m standing alone in a dark New York penthouse suite watching tiny lights file through the grid of streets far below. All of those people have somewhere to go. Somebody to meet. Something to do. I envy them. The floor-to-ceiling window is cold to the touch and entirely too revealing for my taste. I know nobody can see me. No one is looking up this high at three in the morning. Even if they were, they wouldn’t see me if I didn’t want them to. That’s how I’ve survived this long. Stay out of sight. Go undercover. Lie. Shoot. If I’d known a heart could hurt this much, I’d have never shot at all.

I’m wearing his sweatshirt because it smells like him. I used to tease him for constantly wearing it. Long ago, it was a deep maroon, but now it’s dingy purple. I told him not to wash it with new jeans.There’s a hole in the left wristband that my thumb fits through. It’s nearly threadbare on the right elbow from the way he leaned on it when he was writing or eating or whatever else he did. The hem is coming out at the bottom. I told him I would fix it. He told me the more it frayed, the more comfortable it would be. Now I believe him. The sleeves are stretched out from being pushed up to his forearms while he shot at targets. I never told him how beautiful he was with a bow in his hand.

The way he pulled a bowstring was exquisite. The muscles in his arms taut and his wrists more stable than I thought humanly possible, he’d nock arrow after arrow and let the string slip smoothly from his fingertips. He never missed his target. He never missed the way I stared at him with admiration and adoration, either. He would pretend he didn’t see me, but that impish little eye-crinkling smirk would give him away. He knew what that smile did to me. I know two hundred different ways to kill a man and can easily perform each one, but his smile alone would knock me to my knees and steal the breath from my lungs. I would gladly suffer that sweet suffocation. And he would make me. He would smirk - and I’d falter - and he’d release an infectious laugh that shook the entirety of his solid frame. He was the only person who had that power over me. And he reveled in it.

He was supposed to kill me once. I was a threat. He was the solution. He defied orders and let me live, told me there was something special about me. The people he worked for could use someone with my specific skill set. He said his employers would be stupid to let the opportunity to utilize someone who could be anyone pass them by. He marched me through the building with a hand on my elbow, paraded me straight to his director’s office. Fury unleashed a string of obscenities and laid the blame and threats of punishment on thick. During all that, he just stood there, holding my arm, smirking the way he did, waiting to make his statement because he knew he’d just found the key to cracking all of the cases they just couldn’t get a break in. Fury listened. He threatened me, but gave me a chance. Before he promptly dismissed us, Fury told him that I was his responsibility and if I messed up, we were both as good as dead. He spared my life and now I owed a debt. He said I didn’t owe him anything, but if I felt I needed to make things even, I’d always have his back. I jumped at the chance.

We traversed the world completing mission after mission. False names, ages, occupations. Altered appearances and adopted nationalities. He was terrible with accents, but we made it work. We dismantled a criminal organization in Abidjan. We shot innumerable targets from the sky in Hungary - though all he ever remembered about Budapest was a night of Dobos torte and near-manic lovemaking on a plush hotel bed. We fought monsters in the streets of New York with dirt on our faces and blood on our hands. He was controlled by a lunatic who made him do awful things - things he never stopped feeling guilty for. But I was there. I broke him down. I reassembled him. I told him everything would be alright in time. Just a little more red to wipe clean, that’s all. We’ll gather some towels and wash our ledgers together. That’s what partners do.

It started to rain at some point while I was lost in my reverie. There are rainbow rivulets on the window sparkling with the lights of an insomniac city. My breath is fogging the glass and I realize I’ve never felt so angry. I’m mad because I can’t sleep. I’m furious because all I want to do is curl up in the right corner of the sofa behind me and cry for weeks. I’m irate because this sweatshirt has a new hole in the collar that he didn’t cause. I’m enraged that he was taken from me and I couldn’t stop it. I’m livid that, tomorrow, I’ll be expected to passively face the monster that killed Clint Barton.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha struggles through a rough morning.

_Overturned cars and shards of skyscrapers litter the block. Downed streetlights bridge sidewalks. Live electrical wires hiss and snap as they rain sparks on survivor and casualty alike. Rubble blocks traffic. Wind blows ash into the eyes of search team members. Soot-covered children are crying for their parents. Horrified mothers are frantically searching for their sons and daughters. Husbands call their wives’ names. Some answer. Some will be reunited. Some will be buried. Some may never be found._

_Steve is helping everyone he can. Lifting children to see above piles of concrete and brick. A little girl points out her father and the captain calls to him for her with a relieved smile. He didn't want to tell another one she’d have to wait and hope for the best._

_Bruce - still green, but miraculously managing a bit of control - is lifting cars and pushing up fallen walls to aid in the search. He has already found twenty survivors. He’s found more than that bloody and broken._

_Stark is flying overhead and directing police toward signs of life. He found a group of children huddled in the farthest corner of a ruined pre-school. They were all alive, just some minor scrapes and bruises. He cried._

_Thor has gone to find his brother. We had him trapped in Stark Tower after I closed the portal. Thor reached for him with the shackles, but suddenly he vanished. I hope he finds the bastard soon._

_I step over a chunk of dirty concrete impaled by a rusted iron support rod. I can hear someone calling out but I can’t find him. As I move toward the center of the street, the shouts get louder. I shove a piece of scorched taxi door out of my way and find a teenage boy with a skater haircut and cracked Ray-Bans trapped under the taxi’s front tire. I yell to Steve to come lift it. As soon as the car is removed from his abdomen, Steve and I struggle to keep from being sick. Shock and the tire were the only things keeping the boy alive. He bled out too quickly to suffer much._

_“Tasha!”_

_I turn, thankful for a distraction, and my hair whips around my face. Barton hops down from the side of an overturned city bus and ambles toward me, stepping around and over debris. His bow is strapped securely to his back and his quiver is devoid of arrows. There is a gash near his temple that’s bleeding more than I’d like, but he’s smirking at me the way he always does, so I’m not overly concerned when I smile back._

_He’s about twenty feet away when the monster appears behind him._

_My blood runs cold and my smile melts away._

_“Barton! Run!”_

_Confused panic flashes across his face. Just as he starts to break into a sprint, the monster grabs his bow and yanks him back. There is a shimmering green mist around him and suddenly he can’t move. Steve and I try to run toward him, but concrete and cars and glass make for slow going. I’m on top of a crushed black Mercedes when I hear him._

_“Tasha, stop.” His voice is wavering and his steely eyes are shining with a fear he’d never admit feeling. “Just stop. Turn around.“ He shifted his gaze to stare past me. “Cap, don’t let her watch.”_

_Steve tries to turn me, to pull me away, to cover my eyes. But I fight him and knock him over in my effort to break free. I’m over the car and climbing over the broken pieces of a once formidable city before he’s back on his feet. Clint is begging me to run. The closer I get, the more desperate he becomes._

_“Tasha, go back! Please, please go back!”_

_I’m only ten feet away now. I can get to him. I can save him from the grinning monster holding a dagger to his throat._

_I jump over a shattered streetlight. Nine feet._

_Careen around the jagged remains of a taxi van. Seven feet._

_The road is clear enough to run from here. Six feet._

_Five._

_Four._

_Three._

_Two._

_The setting sun glints off the dagger and the monster snickers as he drags his blade across Clint’s throat. A thin red line lingers in its wake._

_He gives me one last sad smirk before the blood begins to rush down his neck, stain his torn and filthy uniform, drip to the ground and pool at his feet. Gasping sounds escape him as the light fades from his eyes._

_The monster pushes him forward and his head hits the pavement with a sickening crack as I slide to my knees beside him, his blood seeping into my clothes._

I wake up screaming with tears on my face. I can still hear the gleefully wicked words the monster spat at me before Thor’s hammer knocked him on his back.

_“Forcing the entirety of Midgard into mindless subjugation would have been far less gratifying than seeing just one Avenger kneel before me in unadulterated fear.”_

It’s nearly 7:30 and my eyelids feel like sandpaper as I shuffle into the S.H.I.E.L.D complex carrying a white and green cup containing more vodka than coffee. Wearing a non-regulation leather jacket would likely earn me a stern talking-to under normal circumstances. But it’s Barton’s and Fury knows I won’t take it off. Operatives can’t have photos or videos lying around. Those things can compromise missions. Fond memories stolen and twisted into target-lock missiles and silenced bullets. His clothes are all I have left of him. His presence is woven into every stitch. The knowledge that he wore this jacket - smiled in it, laughed in it, hugged me so tight that his shoulders nearly split the back in it - is enough encouragement for me to put one foot in front of the other as I drift through a now ever-present fog on my way to the elevator.

Muscle memory alone lifts my hand to slide my clearance badge and step into the softly lit box. I try to resist it, but the thought that the box Barton is in is dark, musty, and lonely claws its way to the forefront of my mind. I chug down the last of my "coffee” in an attempt to drown out haunting remains of remembered funeral speeches and ironically cheerful elevator music. By the time the doors open to the underground level dedicated to holding cells and interrogation rooms, my vision is slightly blurred and I’m not quite sure I’m walking straight as I step into the grey hallway.

The closer I get to Interrogation Room 2, the harder I have to fight to breathe. The hall feels strange under my feet, like it’s tilting, and the wall at the end stretches further away with every step. I swear I can hear the walls cracking, the studs screeching under the pressure. Dark spots dance in front of my eyes and I can’t feel my face. My chest is tightening, my diaphragm squeezing my shriveling lungs. My legs are shaking and unsteady. My heart is pounding against my ribs, struggling to escape from its increasingly hostile environment. My throat locks down on acidic vomit teasing my esophagus.

Across the hall from Room 2, I lean against the wall and slide ungraciously to the floor. I saw him through the wire-crossed window in the door. He was composed, nonchalant. My head is throbbing and my hands are numb. My coffee cup tumbles from my weak fingers. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. My chest hurts. The steel door across from me is sinking into growing darkness. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. Do I want to?

“Natasha? Hey. Hey!”

Fast heavy footsteps. Someone is crouched beside me. He sounds familiar. I can’t see him. I can’t stop shaking. My tongue tastes like metal.

“Natasha, hey. You’re okay.”

He pulls me against him. My face is buried in his shoulder. His shirt is soft. He’s rocking back and forth with one hand cradling the back of my head and the other rubbing small circles on my back.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to go in there. I’ll talk to Fury.” He continues with his circles. “I know it’s hard, but I need you to breathe. Can you breathe with me?”

I think I nod.

“Good girl. Okay, inhale. One, two, three, four, five. Exhale. One, two, three, four, five. Inhale. One, two, three, four, five. Exhale. One, two, three, four, five.”

He counts breaths with me until I stop shaking and can feel my fingers. I’m cold and sweaty and my hair clings to my face. I breathe again as I sit up and let go of his arms. His shirt sleeves are wrinkled where I clutched at him.

My voice is crackly and foreign. “Thank you, Tony.”

He brushes the hair from my face before he stands up. He reaches for his bottled water on the floor and hands it to me.

“Don’t mention it, kiddo. Been there recently, myself.” He extends his hand to pull me up. “And stick with Stark. Tony just sounds weird coming from you.”

I half smile, but I can tell he’s still concerned.

“I meant what I said, ya know. You don’t have to go in there. Fury can just send someone else to question him.”

I sigh and try to shake the tension from my shoulders between sips of water. I was tired when I came in. Now I’m exhausted.

“Thanks, Stark, but I’m okay. If I can’t face him, I don’t need to be in the field. If I’m not out there, if I’m not working, I don’t have anything else.”

“You have us. We all lost Barton. We’re all here for you if you need us. Remember what you’re a part of.”

He backs up, pivots in his overly pretentious way, and proceeds to saunter down the hall.

“Stark, I owe you.”

Without looking back, he waves me off. The fluorescent lights reflect on his Rolex. “Just don’t maim him without me.”

I take a deep breath and hold my badge up to the keypad by the door. The handle is cool and smooth in my hand. I push the door open and step into the offensively bright room where the monster is sitting in a hard chair with his hands clasped in his lap and his boots propped casually on the metal table between us. His voice is saccharine. It feels like slime on my skin.

“Hello, Agent Romanoff. How lovely to see you again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried my best to capture the experience of a panic attack. They're something I struggle with and I wanted to describe Natasha's experience with the feelings involved in my own panic episodes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha questions the monster and gets some shocking information.

"Hello, Agent Romanoff. How lovely to see you again."

I try to maintain a detached facade as I stare into his eyes. I step forward, set the water Tony gave me on the table, and sit on the steel chair across from him. "Just answer my questions and we never have to see each other again. Who gave you the scepter, Loki? And why did they want the Tesseract?" I lean back with my arms folded across my chest.

“Natasha - I’m going to call you Natasha as I feel we are beyond banal formalities - there is no need for false apathy. I am a god. I heard your… episode… in the hall and the odor of cheap alcohol clings to you like a second skin."

I remain silent and impassive. He kicks his feet off the table and sits up straight. He places his palms flat against the tabletop and stares into my eyes, into me.

“You’re very good. Your training is embedded in your every nerve. You don’t blink without calculating the implications, do you? No matter. Lies and deceit are my specialty, as well. You and I may be more alike than you think.”

I continue to stare at him, unmoved. The more he talks, the more he’ll give away in time.

“Oh, Natasha. Stop trying to outwit me. I know you’re biding your time, waiting for me to reveal some clue to a complex plan to cast Midgard into subjugation.”

He's as good at reading people as I am. I'll never say he might be better.

He shakes his head slowly. He looks almost apologetic. “I’m sorry to say that I have no such desire. I am no longer looking to rule your immaterial world full of people who are as beneficial to me as a rock collection.”

I lean forward. “Honestly, I don’t care what _you_ want to do. You’ve been caught. You’re just a means to an end at this point. Answer the question. Who gave you the scepter and why?”

“You know, our previous deal ended with less than desireable results." He waved off the thought of our last interrogation as if it hadn't been a major factor in his downfall. "Nonetheless, I shall offer you another. I will answer your questions. Truthfully. If you help me with one small thing.”

“What makes you think I’d help you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to see Agent Barton again?”

“Oh, there it is.” I sit back sardonically, dropping my hands to my lap. “You’re going to try to manipulate me by using my grief against me. Well, that won’t work. Clint is gone. You killed him.”

He raises a quizzical eyebrow, “Did I?”

My facade crumbles and I skeptically furrow my eyebrows. “What?”

“I am the master of illusion…”

I stand up and rest my fingertips on the edge of the table. “No. You are not going to bribe me with false hope. If you’re not going to tell me who gave you the scepter and why, I’ll release you into Thor’s custody. Then he can take you back to Asgard and let Odin deal with your irritating ass.”

I reach for my water but he snatches it away with an impish glare. He lowers his eyes from mine to the half-empty bottle, turns it on its side and whispers unintelligible words into it. The water begins to emanate a faint green light. I sit back down and and my gaze is drawn into the bottle. In it is a dark chamber filled with millions of shimmering stars, fiery racing comets, and slowly rotating foreign planets. I get the feeling that the room is simultaneously contained and limitless, warm and cold, welcoming and isolating. In the center of the room, Clint lies on his back on the floor with one knee bent to the side, his left hand resting on his stomach, and his right forearm draped over his eyes. The most prominent detail, though, is that he’s breathing.

He looks peaceful. He never looks so serene and at ease when he sleeps. He can never quite shake the stress of our job. Sometimes he calls my name at night. Sometimes he screams at devils in nightmares that torment him with images of our team's broken bodies or lifeless eyes. Sometimes he gets up and walks around the apartment, a somnambulist agent clearing the hallway like it’s a enemy camp before coming back to bed, forgetting it even as it happens. But in here, in this enormous little nursery, he is sleeping soundly. The lines on his face have diminished significantly. A youthful calm has settled over his features. His hair is a little more blond instead of flat and lifeless. His skin shines with a golden vitality I haven’t seen in years. His breathing is slow and steady, deep and fulfilling, rather than shallow and rushed. There is no fear that each breath could be his last.

This is not Clint Barton sleeping. This is Clint Barton resting, which is something I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing. I could watch him forever. Suddenly, it occurs to me that even if he is alive and this isn’t just a sadistic ruse on Loki’s part, I don't know that Clint would want to wake up. Would he want to come back and face the guns, monsters, lies, fights, problems, questions, and endless turmoil we deal with every day? Are our team and our work good enough incentives to leave that peace behind?

Am I?

I rip my gaze away from the bottle and find Loki staring at me with a mischievous smirk. I’ve been crying. At some point I’d crossed my legs in my chair and leaned over the bottle, completely engrossed by the vision. I quickly toss it across the interrogation room and jump up.

“What the hell was that?”

“A simple projection spell. As you see, Agent Barton is perfectly safe, content even, napping in his own corner of the cosmos.”

“If he’s really alive, bring him back. Now.”

“Now, now, that is not the agreement. This is my bargain: I'll give you a pertinent bit of information to pass on to your team, then you'll help me, then - as a reward for your cooperation - I will return Agent Barton to you.”

I regard him suspiciously for a long moment. “Who gave you the scepter?”

He bares his teeth with a gleefully dark smile. “His name is Thanos. He is a devastatingly fierce intergalactic warlord.”

I raise my eyebrows, stunned. “What does he want?”

“He wishes to possess the six Infinity Stones. The Chitauri Scepter, itself, contains the Mind Stone. The Tesseract is one of the five remaining stones. I was ordered to retrieve it and use it to open the portal so that the Chitauri could destroy Midgard. Upon my success, I was expected to return both stones to Thanos.”

“Why does he want these stones?”

“An infinite amount of power; the ability to control minds; warp reality; stop, accelerate, and reverse time; reveal the truth of all things; create portals between realms… he wants to be unstoppable. He wants to rule.”

My stomach churns as I struggle to choke down nervous bile. I know the answer to my question before I ask it. “To rule what?”

Loki looks directly at me, the faintest glimmer of fear sparkling under the sea glass surface of his eyes. “Everything, Natasha. And he will destroy us all to do it.”=

I nod in solemn understanding and turn to open the door. Suddenly my back is against the wall and Loki is caging me with one hand on the wall and the other holding the door shut. He glares at me and whispers a vitriolic threat.

“Make a point to return and fulfill your end of the bargain, Agent Romanoff. I can easily kill Agent Barton despite the distance between us. His life depends on your cooperation.”

I fight to suppress a freezing chill shivering up my spine. “What do you want?”

Loki replies with a menacing grin. “You are going to help me escape this place.” For a moment he seems lost in an unpleasant thought. “I have no intention of allowing Thor to escort me to an Asgardian prison in which I will undoubtedly spend a thousand years pretending to repent for my actions following a biased ruling in the Allfather's court.

My lungs feel like they're on fire and I gasp out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “What are you going to do once you’re free?”

“That does not concern you. Just know that I will, in no way, bring harm to you or your pathetic planet. That would put me much too close to my bro- … to Thor… besides, I have the entire cosmos at my disposal.” He returns his attention to me. “You may never see me again. Now, run along and pass on your new information.”


	4. Chapter 4

I run down the hall, nearly colliding with Agent Hill as I round the corner in my mad dash for the elevator. I ignore her bemused glare and shout to her as I continue down the hall.

“I got information on the scepter. Don’t have a comm. Assemble my people, would you?”

I hear her calling my team to Fury’s office. Her footsteps are fast behind me and soon she’s at my side.

“He talked to you? How did you manage that?”

We reach the elevator but it’s descending from the fourth floor. I push through the door to the left and take the stairs two at a time. Maria is right behind me.

“Maybe I’m just that good.”

“He wouldn’t even talk to his brother, Romanoff.”

“I’m not his brother.”

We’re at the fifth floor landing when she grabs my arm.

“How did you get him to talk?”

Instinctually, I wrench her toward me and spin so that her back hits the wall hard and I have her pinned to it with my forearm at her throat. Winded, she stares at me and gently releases her hold on my wrist.

“Let’s get a few things straight, Maria. One, never grab me like that again. Ever. Two, Fury granted me the authority to conduct my own interrogations and use any means necessary to extract as much information as possible. I am in no way obligated to reveal those methods to you. So, if you want to hear the information I got from Loki, you’ll follow me and you’ll hear it in Fury’s office along with my team, not before them in a stairwell. Understood?”

With an irritated huff, Maria nods.

I push away from the wall and continue up the stairs to the sixth floor. As we come out of the stairwell, Stark is just reaching Fury’s office at the end of the hall. I walk faster - partly to catch up to him and partly to put distance between myself and Maria - and he drapes his arm over my shoulder as if it’s a completely normal thing to do. I glance at him as we walk, daring him to leave it there. He does.

“Relax, Red, I just wanna know how you’re holding up.”

“I’m fine, Stark. Just ready to pass on this information and go to bed.”

“Babe, if you wanted to go to bed with me, all you had to do was ask.” He removes his arm from my shoulders and waves his badge in front of the panel beside the door. He waltzes into Fury’s office, smiling at my exasperated eye-roll. “Hey everybody, Romanoff has intel to share.”

Fury’s office is less intimidating now than it was the first day Clint dragged me into it. Fury sits behind a sleek black desk topped with a touch screen surface and a hologram projector. Behind him is a wall-to-wall bookshelf lined with manuals, hard copies of top agents’ files, blueprints, mission case reports, and other paperwork. On the far side of the room is a large ballistic glass window that is reflective from the outside. There is a large square conference table in the center of the room. Stark circles around to sit beside Bruce. Across from him, Steve sits next to Thor who almost looks too big for his chair. Maria moves past me to sit in the chair next to the one Fury usually sits in. At the other end of the table are two more chairs, one for me… and one for Clint.

“Natasha, are you okay?”

Bruce’s voice snaps me out of my daze. I have no idea how long I’ve been standing here gazing at Clint’s chair. Fury has already moved to sit beside Maria. They and the other four members of my team are all staring at me intently. It dawns on me that I can’t let them know Clint is still alive. If Loki found out that I’d divulged that information, he’d kill Clint on the spot, I’m sure of it. So I make my lip quiver slightly and meet each of their eyes with tears threatening to spill down my cheeks. I imagine I am small, weak. I make myself appear completely vulnerable as I pull Clint’s leather jacket tighter around myself like a cocoon and shuffle across the room to sit in his chair.

“I’ll be fine. I just… I didn’t expect an empty chair to hit me so hard.”

After a long moment of awkward silence, Fury, always one to stay on track, breaks the tension in the room. “Romanoff, what did Loki tell you?”

I take a deep breath. “Right. Loki got the scepter from an intergalactic warlord named Thanos…” I relay every piece of information I got from Loki, skipping over the parts about his desire to escape and Clint being alive. I embellish a little to make his cooperation more believable. I tell them that he threatened to kill me, rip me apart, make hash of my mind. I tell them he was more sinister than when we had him in the cage on the helicarrier. I tell them that he seemed dangerous, but that he started cooperating when I told him the longer he was helpful to us, the longer we would keep him here, far away from Odin. I tell them I believe he has more information and that I will return to the interrogation room to question him further.

“We don’t know who else this Thanos guy has working for him. We’ve got to find those stones before he does.” Steve leans forward to meet my eyes. “We’re heading out today, Natasha. You’re not coming with us?”

“I don’t think I’m focused enough for field work, Cap. I won’t be of any use.” I look around the table to see silent agreement from each of my comrades, except Stark. He has his elbow propped on the table and is tracing his bottom lip with an absent minded forefinger as he stares at me suspiciously.

Thor shifts his eyes from Stark’s face to mine. “If the two of you are through with your mental battle, perhaps we could begin our search.” He turns his attention to Steve and Fury. “Dr. Selvig has many connections, I am certain that if we meet with him he could be of assistance. He has been moved to London with Jane and Darcy.”

Fury nods his assent and Steve addresses the team. “The quinjet takes off in an hour. Everybody suit up.”

As everyone leaves the room, Fury calls my name. When everyone has gone and the door is shut, he leans against the edge of his desk and studies my face. “I know you’ve been through a lot. These guys haven’t been around you as long as I have. They only know your reputation, I know you. You made the right call when you decided to sit this mission out. Barton would have been proud of you.”

I take a deep breath and sigh. “I hope so, sir.”

He stops scrutinizing me and turns to lift a file off of his desk. He opens the folder and looks at me as though he’s weighing the consequences against whatever decision he’s about to make.

“I shouldn’t be giving you this because it could compromise your cover in the future, but I trust that you’ll keep it somewhere nobody will ever find it.” He steps forward and hands me a black and white SHIELD surveillance photo from the hall camera outside Fury’s office.

In the photo, Clint is leading me to meet Fury on that first day. I’m looking straight ahead, certain  that I’m being marched to my demise despite his constant reassurance to the contrary. His hand is wrapped around my arm and he’s looking directly at me, his face lit up with that smile I love.

“Thank you, sir.”

Fury walks around his desk and slips the file back into it’s rightful place on the shelf. “He was a good agent. A good man.”

I look up at my director and nod solemnly. “Yes he was.”

“Alright, enough bonding, time to focus on something less depressing. Head back down to Interrogation and see what else Loki’s willing to disclose.“

"Yes, sir.”

I tuck the photo into the pocket of Clint’s jacket as I walk out the door. I’m halfway to the elevator when a metal clad hand clutches the back of my neck and unceremoniously pushes me into a small conference room. Closing the door and standing squarely in front of it, Stark looks at me warily.

“He got in your head, didn’t he?”

“What?”

He stalks toward me. “Don’t play dumb with me, Romanoff. A person wouldn’t have to be a genius to see you were hiding something back in Fury’s office, but I am one. How did he get to you?”

I steel myself. “He didn’t.”

“What did he do? Cast some mojo spell on you? Touch your forehead and scramble your brain?”

“No.”

“Well, his threats don’t scare you. So that leaves promises.”

I hold fast to my indifference and keep my eyes locked on Stark’s as he looks down at me from the safety of his fortified metal suit.

“That’s it, isn’t it? Natasha, whatever he promised you was a toxic lie wrapped up in pretty paper and passed off as candy. He will never follow through.”

“You know, Stark, sometimes I think you don’t trust me very much.”

“Sometimes I think you deflect by abruptly changing the subject.”

I cross my arms and nod toward the door. “The quinjet is going to leave without you.”

He flashes a cocky smirk. “I can fly.”

Infuriated, I clench my teeth. “Stark, stay out of my business. You do not want to make an enemy of me, I assure you. That’s the only promise you need to worry about.”

I duck around him and open the door but he slams it shut, holding it closed with one hand while he turns me around with the other. Pointing his finger at me, his typical arrogance is gone, replaced by intimidating conviction.

“I’ll back off for now, Romanoff. But if you go down to that interrogation room and do something stupid, you’ll have the Avengers to deal with. You hear me?”

I stare up at him in resentful silence.

“I said, ‘Do you hear me?’”

“Yes. I hear you.”

“Good.” He opens the door and marches down the hall toward the elevator.

As soon as the doors shut in front of him, I bolt down the hallway and slam through the stairwell door. Taking the steps two at a time, I run up to the seventh floor and wave my badge in front of the security panel beside the door to the armory level. I press my fingertips to the blue scanning screen and the door slides open when my identity is verified. The dark grey walls on the sides of the room are covered with various types of guns, ammunition, knives, safety gear, and communication devices. Set into the far wall, like exhibits in a museum, are six brightly lit display cases. The first four are empty, which means Stark wasn’t the only one who’d already gotten his suit. I stride toward the sixth case, mentally reassuring myself that Clint will be making his way toward the fifth one soon enough. I open my case, leaving my clothes and Clint’s jacket folded inside, and hastily change into my uniform. These boots are a pain in the ass, but I’ll talk to someone about that later if my team doesn’t kill me first. I fasten my holster to my thigh and slip my electroshock bracers up over my gloves, securing them to my wrists before I reach into the case to grab my utility belt.

I remember when I got my first SHIELD uniform, Clint asked me why I kept the red hourglass and the Black Widow moniker.

_”You know, you’re not their property.You don’t have to wear their logo like you owe them something.”_

_“I do. They made me what I am. And this way, when I’ve finally taken them all out, people will think of me when they hear the name Black Widow. It won’t be equated to terror and torture anymore, but defense and security. Like it was meant to be.”_  

I clip my belt around my waist and grab two semi-automatic pistols off the wall, tucking one into my thigh holster and one into the holster on the back of my belt as I walk back toward the door. In the stairwell, which is kind of starting to feel like home today, I hear two agents climbing the stairs about four floors away. I descend the steps at a moderate pace and acknowledge them tersely when they greet me on the fifth floor landing. When I’m certain they’ve passed and aren’t watching me, I sprint down the stairs to the underground interrogation level, open the door, survey the area, and make my way toward Loki’s holding room.

Stark had a good point earlier. Loki lies, it’s his M.O. This gamble could jeopardize my career. My life. If he’s playing me - if Clint is dead - I know for a fact that it won’t be long before I’m dead, too. I tell myself that if that’s the case, I’m not really losing much anyway. I step up to the threshold,  close my eyes, take a deep breath, and wave my badge in front of the security panel to open Loki’s door.


	5. Chapter 5

“Natasha, you’ve returned sooner than I expected. I admire your enthusiasm.”

The door clicks shut behind me as I lean forward with both hands pressed to the table. “I am not enthused, Loki. I am tired. I am now excruciatingly sober. And I want my partner back. I would try to play you but we both know that won’t work and I don’t feel like wasting my time. So, can we get this show on the road, please?”

“Of course.” He points to the metal collar around his neck. “As soon as you remove this vile hindrance.” 

“Sit down.” 

He gracefully lowers himself into his chair and I step around the table to enter the seven digit code on the small key pad on the back of the collar. He is sturdier than he looks. Solid. My fingertips brush the nape of his neck and the slight chill of his skin reminds me that he’s not human. He’s not even whatever Thor is, he’s something called a Frost Giant. I make a mental note to brush up on my Norse mythology. 

“Before I take this off, I have to know you can use some kind of mojo to get us out of here. Once it’s removed, it sends a security signal to both Stark and Fury. If they don’t approve the removal - and they won’t - this place will be on lockdown so fast your head will spin.”

“I can get us out. You have my word.”

“Sorry, but your word doesn’t carry a lot of weight around here, Prince Myshkin.”

“Agent Romanoff, are you teasing me? Attempting to insult me with ironic allusions to Midgardian literature?” 

“We can discuss the fact that you know Dostoyevsky later.” I snap the collar open and he pulls it from under his chin. “Time to go.”

Standing abruptly, he pulls me flush against his side with an arm slung slightly too low around my waist. I begin to protest but suddenly every atom in my body is being pulled in different directions and oxygen seems nonexistent as a shimmering green light erupts in the room. My vision starts to fade and vodka flavored acid teases the back of my throat. I feel both weightless and too heavy, exhausted and exhilarated. My head throbs as a screeching chime reverberates through my body, making every bone vibrate and each limb quake in it’s involuntary stasis. Reality is so distorted that I don’t even register that Loki’s cradling me to his chest with one arm supporting my ribs and the other hooked under my knees. When I’m coherent enough to open my eyes, he’s standing in the middle of a thicket in Central Park. He gently lowers me to my feet and holds me steady until I find my equilibrium.

I stagger a little and brace my hand against the trunk of a sweetgum tree. “I feel sick.”

“I would expect as much. Teleportation is not meant for mortals.”

“Good thing you put Clint to sleep. He doesn’t do so well with vomiting.” 

Loki watches me with what I’m sure I’m mistaking for concern while I sway from side to side, blink slowly, and swallow burning bile. “Perhaps you should sit for a moment.”

“No time.” I shake my head to clear it and push fiery, stress-dampened curls behind my ear. “Let’s do this.”

“No more teleporting. It poses too many risks. It obviously affects you rather negatively and my magic is not without limits. Heimdall is particularly skilled in tracking me. I am already shielding us from his sight. If we make a habit of teleporting, my cover will slip and he’ll be able to help Thor find us. We’ll have to adopt more traditional means of travel and use a portal to reach Agent Barton.”

I lean against the tree and and sigh, throwing a sidelong glance in his direction. “Is there one nearby?”

The corner of his mouth turns up in roguish assent. “Relatively.”

“Okay. Well, we’re not getting far without a car or something and we certainly can’t walk around New York looking like this. Stark has probably already hacked his way into the street camera grid. We need to blend in.”

Loki grins wickedly, passing his eyes over my body as he waves his hands in a clichéd illusionist gesture.

And that’s how, after over an hour of walking through New York, I end up sitting in a stiff, uncomfortable chair in the waiting area for Terminal 1 at JFK International Airport pushing annoyingly sideswept blonde hair out of my eyes as I stare down at a counterfeit passport and a one way ticket to Oslo. I tug at my navy and white striped shirt and look up at Loki, who’s sitting beside me looking deceivably normal in his white v-neck t-shirt and black cardigan, and sporting short, light brown hair. I turn back to my passport and sigh.

“Nina Rogers. Really, you had to go with Rogers?”

The corner of his mouth quirks. “Retribution for the ‘Prince Myshkin’ comment.”

“You’re insufferable. I can't believe I have to deal with you." I flip my passport closed over my ticket and turn in my seat with a huff to scrutinize Loki. "Why do I have to deal with you? Why not just use Clint when you had him?"

"You had my scepter. No scepter means no mind control. Now, I suppose I could have threatened your life, but Agent Barton is the type who would have called my bluff. If I'd gone through with my threat against you, he'd have killed himself in his grief. He was no use to me."

"Unless you used him to get to me."

"Exactly. He has done so much for you. Set you on the right path, provided you with a chance at redemption. You said yourself that you owe him a great debt. You would neither gamble with his life nor end your own, because then all of his sacrifice and risk taking would have been for naught. It would be the ultimate show of disrespect to throw that all away."

"You think you know everything, don’t you?"

He tilts his head and flashes a pitying smile. "Has my plan no worked? Are you not sitting in wait for air transportation to take you to your lover? Am I not free? Natasha, you somehow managed to turn my words against me in the helicarrier, a feat not often achieved, but in your ruse you also revealed your weakness. Your love, your debt, makes you the easiest pawn to manipulate." He looks up as a falsely peppy female voice resonates from the loudspeakers, calling all passengers to board the flight to Norway. "Shall we?"

After seven and a half hours of sitting squished between Loki and a small shadeless window on the sunny side of the plane, I am more than ready to disembark and head out for wherever this portal is. The flight was hell. Loki found every way imaginable to irritate me. He bitched about the food, fidgeted constantly, complained about the seat size, flirted with the stewardess, asked nonstop questions about the in-flight movie’s plot instead of just watching it, and told the old woman next to us that I was his Russian mail order bride - I still haven’t figured out how he knows about those, he didn’t even know what a passport was until I told him. All of that added to my already considerable exasperation over having walked right into his plan in the first place lead to my dour mood which, of course, did not not unnoticed by Loki. 

We land at the Gardermoen Airport just outside of Oslo and have to wait a half hour to debark because there is ice on the runway. I lean my head against the little window and try to calculate how hard and at what angle I’d have to smash my head against it in order to end this whole scenario. My partner is missing, possibly not even alive. I’ve turned on my team and aligned myself with the enemy, which - like Stark said earlier - they’ll be hunting me. I haven’t slept more than five or six hours in three days, for all I know, this could all be some kind of hallucination caused by sleep deprivation and Clint really is dead. If that’s the case, maybe a forty-five degree angle from the seat would do the trick. I draw in a deep breath of stale, recycled air and exhale slowly in an attempt to shake some of the stress. 

“I don’t suppose you could conjure up a Valium.”

“A what?”

“Of course. Nevermind.”

As I slide into the driver’s seat of the rental car, finally looking like myself again, I ask Loki where we’re supposed to go and he tells me to drive northwest and says he’ll stop me when we’ve reached the portal’s location. I flip on the stereo in the hopes of drowning out the endless judgmental chatter that Loki seems incapable of shutting off, but I get nothing but static. Loki says Norway is a vast wasteland of snow and ice. The ground is too white, the sky is too grey, the air temperature is fine but he hates that it’s comfortable. After a brief moment of being offended by his complaining because Norway is basically the same as Russia and I often miss home, it occurs to me that his complaining isn’t about me or Norway at all. He’s comparing it to Jotunheim, the apparently horrendous place that his true people come from. He wants to be Asgardian because he always believed he was. I know all too well what it’s like to discover that your whole life has been a lie and that you’ve been used as a literal secret weapon. Maybe he was right back in the interrogation room. Maybe we are more alike than I thought.

I decide to ask him about his home and why Jotunheim is so horrible in comparison. He tells me that Asgard is beautiful. A golden city surrounded by sparkling, translucent water and dotted with trees and other greenery; the ever present breeze is warm and carries the sweet scent of Asgardian flowers in its current. He says the rainbow bridge is most breath-taking at twilight when the sun is just below the horizon and the bridge’s colors are accentuated by the fading pinks and golds of the darkening sky. He recalls watching the heavens change color from the balcony in his room and staring in awe as millions of stars fired to life on indigo evenings. He tells me about the woman who raised him, though he’s reluctant to call her his mother. His eyes glisten as he describes the effortless kindness in her voice and the way she carries herself - regally, of course, yet approachable and gentle. He recounts their lessons in magic and how she always taught him to play to his own strengths rather than trying to fit into the mold that Thor had so easily broken. He tells me that no other person, Asgardian or otherwise, will ever hold as much light in their eyes, acceptance in their smile, or love in their embrace as she always has.

“But I do not belong to that world. It was an immaculate lie I was so eager to believe that I never saw it for what it truly was.” He sneers. “A ruse. A sick game that Odin so loved to watch me play. I am not a golden being, but a monster from a cold and desolate realm of unsightly landscapes and equally repugnant people.”

I flick my eyes between him and the road, keeping my hands steady on the wheel. “You know, Loki, there’s a proverb here on Earth that I think you should consider. ‘Home is where the heart is.’ Listen, you may not be the person you thought you were, but that doesn’t mean that your mother and brother love you any less. Yeah, your dad sounds like he can be a jackass, but everyone is closer to one parent than the other.”

Suddenly the car is gone and Loki is standing in front of me wearing his full battle regalia with his lip curled into a menacing scowl and his right hand clutching my throat. He squeezes my jugular and carotid artery, crushing them with such antagonized strength that my head throbs and my vision blurs. My knees buckle limply and the only thing holding me upright is the pressure of his vice-like fingers grasping my neck. 

“Do not patronize me with your pathetic attempt at coercing me into returning to Asgard. The only thing awaiting me there is the less than appealing guarantee of eternal imprisonment.”

I barely make out his growled words before he hurls me unceremoniously to the hard frozen ground and stalks into the coppice of pine trees alongside the road, his emerald cape billowing behind him.

Wincing as I drag myself to my knees, I cough and specks of blood splatter on the snow. Damaged larynx or no, I have to follow Loki if I have any hope of bringing Clint home. So I crawl to a tree and claw my way up with numb fingers, pulling myself from the ground. I try to breathe, but the frosty air hurts my throat and I cough again, sputtering blood into my glove. After my fit subsides, I cup my other hand over my nose and mouth to block the cold air and follow the impressions of Loki’s boots in the snow, carefully stepping over fallen branches and avoiding prickly underbrush along the way. 

After about ten minutes of trekking through the forest, I finally catch up with Loki, who seems to be engaged in conversation with someone, but they’re blocked from my view by Loki’s formidable height. A twig snaps under my foot as I step into the small clearing and Loki peers over his shoulder with a sadistic smirk before sweeping out of the way to reveal his companion. Clint stands firmly in place holding his bow in one hand and adjusting his arm guard with the other. He looks at me with a hollowness in his eyes that I’ve never seen. He reaches up and pulls an arrow from his quiver, nocking it and calculating his shot before he lifts his bow and pulls the string back, aiming directly at my heart.

I stand perfectly still and slide my gaze from Clint’s focused stare to Loki’s demonically gleeful grin. “I thought you couldn’t control his mind without the scepter.”

Loki’s smile widens. “I can’t. But I can alter what he sees. And right now, when he looks at you, he sees me.” With that, a soft glow envelops Loki and his body is replaced by an identical copy of myself. He leans toward Clint and whispers in his ear just loud enough for me to hear. “What are you waiting for? Kill the monster.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delayed update. This chapter gave me fits for weeks.

So this is how I die. It’s only fitting, I suppose. It should have ended this way years ago.

The look on his face is different now. Before, when he was sent after me, I was just another target. A problem that he was best suited to solve. A mission to be quickly completed so he could go home to the ramshackle apartment he shared with his brother and his dog. He was indifferent to a point. He had squinted his eyes and drawn back his bowstring, held his aim just too long. He had hesitated to kill the young woman who had taken down assassins and spies far greater than himself. He had pitied me, seen the weapon I’d become. He’d seen the pawn being pushed across a chessboard for the benefit and amusement of a perverse government. He had seen the relief spread across my face as he’d pulled back his arrow. And then he had decided to be merciful.

There will be no mercy this time. No, this time as he looks at me with those steely eyes, he does not see a token on someone else’s game board. He does not see his partner or his friend or the woman he loves. He does not see the woman who loves him more than anything else in the world, who would give her life for his, who would gladly go back to doing special ops for the KGB if it meant keeping him safe. Looking at me this time he again squints his eyes, not in hesitation or tentative curiosity, but in calculated fury. This time - with his bow held steady, his jaw set, and his fingertips itching to slip from the taut bowstring - he sees a monster.

I almost don’t want to fight it. I don’t want to beg him to see me. I don’t want to give Loki the satisfaction of watching me desperately try to reconstruct my life, which he has absolutely reveled in destroying. I am so tired. I’m tired of everything being a battle. I’m tired of being tired and sore and injured. I almost want to just give in, let Clint put an arrow through me, and get it over with. But there are only three things that can happen if I give up. One, obviously, is that Loki would kill Clint. Another is that he would drop his illusion, leaving Clint to deal with the horror and guilt of having killed me. The last is that, with me out of the way, he would keep my identity and return with Clint to do God knows what with the rest of our team. And I just… I can’t let any of those things happen.

I raise my hands to show him I’m not holding any weapons and hope that the illusion he sees is unarmed as well. “Clint, I’m Natasha. I know you see him when you look at me, but it’s a trick. I didn’t come all this way just so you could shoot me.”

His hollow focus doesn’t waver and his face doesn’t change. “Flippant, nice touch. You’ve really studied her haven’t you?”

I shake my head slowly. “Think about it. Your arrows didn’t stop him in New York. Why would they work now? They wouldn’t. He’s trying to make you kill me.”

“Why?”

I shrug slightly, “I don’t know.” A thought occurs to me and suddenly everything makes sense. “He wants to take us all out. If you kill me here, he can keep my identity and go back to base with you. They’ll think he’s long gone and won’t bother looking for him. But when you’re all together, he’ll kill you and you won’t even see it coming. Then he can go after the scepter and the Tesseract and have leverage for a chance at getting back on Thanos’ good side.” I scoff, “He knew he was fucked and he needed a way to save himself.”

Clint tilts his head back a little and stares at me curiously. “How can I trust anything you say?”

Loki lays a hand identical to my own on Clint’s shoulder. “You can’t. He’s manipulating you. He’s trying to confuse you, to make you turn against me. Just shoot him so we can go home.”

I flick my eyes to Loki. “You’re not going anywhere with him. You’ve hurt him enough.” Turning my attention back to Clint, I slowly point at Loki and say, “Check him for the red hourglass tattoo on my right shoulder.”

Clint offers a barely noticeable understanding nod and Loki shoots me a pitying smirk. It’s as though he’s saying nice try, but I have magic, it will be there. He still thinks I’m stupid, but playing his game worked for me once before, hopefully it can work again. While Loki grins at me, Clint lowers his bow and uses his arrow to slice the sleeve of Loki’s copy of my uniform. Under the material is a small red hourglass embedded in the layers of smooth, peachy flesh. Clint looks into Loki’s duplicates of my eyes and pulls him into a hug. I close my eyes in feigned defeat, keeping careful watch through the fringe of my eyelashes as Loki wraps his too familiar arms around Clint’s waist. As soon as Loki thinks he’s won, Clint whispers “She doesn’t have any tattoos,” and pierces the god’s abdomen with a fast acting paralyzer arrow. Dismayed shock glistens in Loki’s eyes as his illusion fades away and he sinks to the frost dusted forest floor. Clint looks back at me, “Hey, Nat, please tell me you brought those magic inhibiting cuffs Thor gave you.”

By the time the words leave his mouth I’ve already pulled the cuffs from the largest pouch on the back of my belt and crossed the clearing to kneel beside Loki. I clasp the cuffs around his wrists and stare at the wavering patch of iridescent air behind him. Pointing to the misty anomaly, I look up at Clint. “Portal?”

He nods and I stand up to pull him into a tight hug. Burying my face in the crook of his neck, I inhale the familiar hint of his spicy cologne cutting through the overwhelming scent of cold air and leather that clings to his skin. His strong hands on the small of my back make me crave the comfort and warmth of our bed back home. He plants a kiss to my hair as he cradles my head against his chest.

I can’t believe how much I missed him. I’ve always been so independent, so well adjusted to living and working alone. But then Clint came along and filled me with emotions I’d never felt. He treated me better than anyone I’d ever known. Before I knew it, I trusted him as much as I trusted myself. In my line of work, emotions and trust can get you caught, or worse, killed. But he’d always come for me if I needed him to and he knew I’d do the same for him. We became a unit, a two-for-one product with appealing packaging and impressive reviews. Having him here in my arms again - alive and safe - is the greatest feeling in the world.

I take a deep breath to calm myself and force my arms ligament by ligament to loosen their hold on him. More to myself than to him, I say, “We don’t have time for goo goo eyes and dramatic reunions right now. Better hit him with a few more paralytics. We don’t know how long they’ll affect him. And lord knows we can’t take him on by ourselves if he gets up.”

“Your efficiency is so romantic.” He pulls out two more arrows and stabs them into each of Loki’s thighs.

Anger flares in Loki’s drowsy eyes and I know that as soon as he’s able to move, he’s not going to kill us - he’s going to destroy us.

“You’ll get your romance later, Cupid. Right now, we’re going to do something we don’t usually do.”

He gives me that eye-crinkling grin that makes my heart flutter and my IQ drop. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

I hesitate for a brief moment to appreciate the smile before snapping back into fight or flight mode. “Run like hell.”

Clint retracts the limbs of his bow and snaps it onto the modified holster at his hip. “Well alright then. Let’s get the hell outta here before he gets up and decides to send me back to the middle of nowhere.” He walks around me and hitches his thumb over his shoulder. “Back the way you came?” He acknowledges my nod by taking my hand and breaking into a full sprint, leading the way and warning me about obstacles to come as he pulls me past fragrant evergreens and prickly thickets on the way back to the street.

When we burst through the treeline, we skid across the frozen semi-pavement of the backroad and Clint opens the passenger door of the rental car, ushering me inside. “I’m driving. I’ve been still long enough. I feel the need for –”

“Don’t you dare finish that corny quote.” I give him a half warning quirk of my eyebrows.

He deadpans. “What did Tom Cruise ever do to you?” With a disapproving shake of his head, he closes my door and slides across the hood of the car to open his own.

As he slides into the driver’s seat, I say, “He started making movies. Crappy ones.”

Clint’s jaw drops and he looks as offended as if I’d slapped him. “That was just uncalled for.” He starts the car. “Okay, to the Oslo safe house or to flee the country?”

“To the safe house for some supplies and a quinjet, then on to London to meet up with the team. We’ve got some major things to fill you in on and I’m sure Tony would like to have a word with me. Actually, he might kill me.”

Clint glances at me as he peels away from the edge of the forest. “He can fucking try. I’ll put an arrow through him before he can say J.A.R.V.I.S.”

He shoots me another one of those smiles that make me feel like a schoolgirl with a crush. I smile back, glad to finally feel like myself again, but I can’t shake the feeling that I could lose Clint again just as easily as I got him back. And I know now how that would affect me. We aren’t superhuman like our team; we’re just two regular people with good aim and a knack for strategy. We could become the collateral damage our team inevitably has to deal with at any given moment. I want to keep him around just as much as I want to stay alive for him. I want a chance to build a real life together, one that doesn’t involve us nearly dying every other day and accumulating more visits to the infirmary than the rest of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents combined. I don’t want a picket fence, but safety and peace would be a nice change of pace. For the first time I consider the option that’s always been there in the back of my mind, waiting for me to come around. For the first time, I consider my own mortality and how meaningless my presence is in the majority of our team’s battles. For the first time, I give serious thought to the prospect of retirement.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trying to get my writing mojo back for a long time. This is the first project I've been happy with :)
> 
> Find me at chagrintrovert.tumblr.com


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